


His Prophet of War

by a_cow_made_from_lego



Category: Band of Brothers, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Poetic, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, World War II, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26792050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_cow_made_from_lego/pseuds/a_cow_made_from_lego
Summary: Within the sprawling soldiers, submerging the town grateful for the ability to sit nevertheless the chance to, an Angel is working.
Relationships: Eugene Roe/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	His Prophet of War

Cobblestones crumble under the weight of history. Shivering children harass the stones, avoiding the eyeline of western strangers. They were unsettlingly desensitised to the screams of heavy artillery. Clutching army rations and running to their mothers comforts my brain as the thin blankets attempt on the rattling bones- no, bodies- of soldiers nearby. Army rations spread desperately across a street as if spread across a nation: apparently war is not successful for agriculture. 

Within the sprawling soldiers, submerging the town grateful for the ability to sit nevertheless the chance to, an Angel is working. Beaten wings beneath a sanctioned jacket flutter helplessly in time to the beating heart of the wounded under their careful hands. Soothing the souls of the injured from limbs clutching on, to splinters from wooden desks.  
I stumble, standing, stumble over. Away from the childless eyes of children torn from joy.  
Torn from life. Torn from their mothe-

“You okay Private?”

Warmth fills my veins. Brachiocephalic,common iliac, pulmonary. The decadent flow of peace seeping through my bones past the muscles conducting the sweet taste of joy from the collarbone to the toes. The calloused hand made landfall on my shoulder, like a crown to cushion, firm and grounding. Cementing my feet to the ruined city streets, eyes blank. My head isn't in the clouds, my shoulder is in the presence of heaven itself.  
My head lulls, swifting like the syllables on that southern tongue through the air, soaring like missiles of language and prose. The Prophet shifts my world like the bandages wrapped tightly around bodies, clutching at my shoulders like an altar clutches prayer-

“Let’s sit down yeah?”

My windows meet his. Doe brown glass panes reflect back, opening the floodgates drowning my senses in a hedonic thrill of a forbidden sin. The furrow of the brow bone, not in anger like a father once forgotten, but in concentration, in concern. The callouses caress the tones of my stomach, shaped by 3 miles cursed to run for what felt like eternity, even the Angel had to trek the mountain. The cursed mountain, standing alone for centuries mocking the way his hand curls around my abdomen in worry, even now 4,554 miles far. The green lush covers the seeping hot terrain in spite of the scorned souls running through it’s stomach, the air acidic to taste-

“Hey, hey Private keep your eyes on me yeah?” 

Southern syllables once again, dripping like saline into my head, softening my ascension from earth. Wings spread like parachutes curling around bodies. The last glimpses of the useless war was of Southern religion in the shape of him, of the brown eyed Prophet.

“D.. Delancy is down..”

**Author's Note:**

> A male soldier describes his Prophet, as he lays dying. 
> 
> Welcome to my first ever writing! Thoughts?


End file.
